When I first got to Paga I was taken aback to hear that people go to bed around 8pm and get up at 5am, or even earlier. How on earth can you go to bed so early? I asked them incredulously. They invariably just shrugged their shoulders and grinned a silent, knowing answer back.
So now a month into my Ghanaian experience I find myself drawn to my own bed earlier and earlier as each evening passes. I haven’t quite made the 8pm cut off just yet, but suffice it to say I haven’t been too far off at times. I think the intense heat just drains the energy from you so that after you have eaten and washed (for at least the second time that day) the thought of just lying down and recharging those tired bones is too enticing to deny. That said I haven’t remotely compensated with the early morning starts that are the norm here. So perhaps I am just one lazy white man.
But then what does one do after dark here? There is nowhere to go, as we eat at home and there isn’t exactly the option of cinemas and coffee shops to distract. There are local bars – called Chop Shops – but the lure of alcohol isn’t enough to drag a tired body out into the dark night. We sleep with the ceiling fan on every night which does its very best to reduce the temperature a degree or so – just enough to be adequately comfortable to fall asleep. It also drowns out the foreign sounds that might keep one awake in wonder as to what they belong to. One cool night after a huge rain storm I turned off the fan before going to bed. Lying down I began hearing a chorus of strange sounds I had never noticed before. I heard the frightened yelping of some anxious animal (I’m hoping a dog) and the drunken calls of some rowdy men who most likely just crossed the border and stopped off for the night before completing their journey the next day. There was an ugly choir of toads from a nearby pond, each seemingly competing with their neighbour to make the loudest, most obnoxious sound a reptile could make. Then there were the puzzling scraping sounds on the roof and walls of our house guests – the lizards. After five minutes of identifying new sounds – thuds, clatters, calls and bangs – I decided that the fan needed to go on again. The reassuring, hypnotic whirr blotting out whatever activities were taking place right outside my window. I also double checked that the door was well and truly locked.
If the nights are troubled by the odd unidentified sounds, the mornings arrive with a trumpet call of cacophony. The Muslims begin their prayers at ridiculous o’clock, which is the wake up call for man and beast alike. The cockerels begin their competitive calling matches. One proud old bird circles our house endlessly in the morning, marking this as his territory with an annoying incessant crow that could drive a man completely insane at such an early hour. I shut one ear from the prayers and the other from the cockerel and fool myself into thinking I can still sleep on. Mind over matter. But then the other birds begin. There is a tree outside our house with at least one hundred exotic looking yellow birds who like nothing better than to commence their day by bickering and catching up excitedly on gossip as they put the finishing touches to their nests which dangle from the boughs in balls as if they were the fruit of the tree. I have never seen so many birds in one tree before. Clearly ours is the finest tree in the district as it is the most prized residential location for this particular yellow species.
Soon the people begin to pass by and gather in the clearing directly in front of the living room. There are three trees that provide welcome shade and everyone wants their spot under one to sit and wait. For what I am not sure exactly, but by 8am there can be up to 50 men there arguing, chatting, some praying on their prayer mats, others roaming about selling sun glasses and flip flops. Just ahead of them on the road the enormous trucks are lined up, ready to pass through the border as soon as it opens. Some people lie underneath them in respite from the sun while the more enterprising have brought hammocks that they tie to the belly of the vehicle and somehow manage to continue their sleep. By 7:30am it is already impossibly hot and time for my first wash of the day. I have a full bucket of clean water with which to do so. Hunched down in my modern bath devoid of running water I throw the first jug of cold water over my head and then, only then do I truly become awake. It’s a startling offensive jolt of a start and one which I never look forward to. By the time the bucket has been drained of water and me of my yelps, squeals and shudders the shock has just about subsided. When I’ve dried off and had a quick bite of toasted tea bread it’s time to cycle up the hill to the clinic.
When I arrive I am again covered in sweat, dust from the road and fumes from the filthy lorries speeding past. My face red with effort from cycling in the heat I find myself already beginning to dream of my bed under that comforting, reassuring fan, a half hour earlier tonight I decide. I groan slightly to myself at the day’s work ahead of me, making children cry and trying to reassure them in a foreign language or with bribes of sugar. I sigh at the thought of yet another day which will bring rice for both lunch and dinner and daydream about the supermarkets at home before being jolted back to reality by a question.
Did you sleep well my colleagues ask daily. Oh yes, very well I lie before returning the question. I wouldn’t know how to begin explaining to them how different things here are from what I’m used to. They always smile back, happy that I am content and comfortable in their country. And in an inexplicable way I really am, I just don’t know how to put in words or even quite understand it myself.
Conortje 